


BURN THE BODY DOWN

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Whitechapel
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chandler lives in constant fear of failure; that his illness will manifest and his body will betray him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BURN THE BODY DOWN

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemo_the_Everbeing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemo_the_Everbeing/gifts).



> The cases that Buchan brings up in this fic are real.
> 
> Beta by ariadnes_string.
> 
> Nemo_the_Everbeing has been so kind in waiting patiently for this fic to materialize and for that I am extremely grateful and hope that it was worth the wait.

Chandler ascended the stairs of the station, Buchan nipping at his heels. His head was pounding and a light sheen of sweat had started to make itself known across his forehead. Buchan was blathering at him, barely a full stop between robust paragraphs. It was all he could do to keep moving, one step at a time, and virtually none of what was being said to him penetrated the fog of anxiety that permeated his brain.

“DI Chandler, do you understand what this could mean?” Buchan was saying.

“No, sorry, I... can we meet later? I have some things I need to attend to first...”

“Right, of course,” Buchan said with evident disappointment. He disappeared from Chandler’s side and Chandler breathed a sigh of relief. Another sigh of relief was forthcoming, as once he clapped eyes on his sergeant, he could communicate with a look how flustered he was feeling. Miles materialized by his side, ushering him into his office with a look over his shoulder to the rest of them to stay put.

Chandler settled in with his morning ritual and Miles waited patiently until every pen and notebook, watch and phone was in place and straightened. Then Chandler looked up.

“We have a second death. The killer used nitric acid.”

“A pattern?”

“Looks like it. We’ve got to get to the crime scene now, but we want to limit speculation for a bit. It could be coincidence. The victim recently arrived from Gujarati State in India.”

“You’re joking.” Miles said. “The first one was just in from Poland, is someone targeting immigrants? That’s a good place to start.”

“Yes, but it’s imperative we don’t stoke any fires on that front.”

“Orders from higher up?” Miles’ mouth twisted in distaste.

“Just make sure it’s clear,” Chandler said. “Let’s go.” Pens, notebook, watch and phone were all restored to his person. As Miles opened the door and started shouting orders to the team. Chandler paused at the light switch and breathed deeply. He knew he’d been better, but at the moment it seemed that something was off. Had been, maybe for a few months. But it came and went, didn’t it? He abhorred his own lack of control.

He forced himself out the door and Kent fell into step by his side. He wondered if any of them knew how much they helped him. Hopefully they were blissfully unaware.

~*~

The briefing was short and everyone was chomping at the bit to get to the crime scene. Kent was quickest, holding the doors for him. Chandler took advantage of the gesture, trying to gather his thoughts. Once at the scene, the sky rotated 90 degrees and then back again at the edge of Chandler’s vision and he ferociously snapped the rubber band at his wrist to keep from stumbling or making a right fool of himself. The snap only served to remind him of Morgan, of the blood, and how he’d failed at his job. He stepped closer to Miles and tried to breathe. Danger was everywhere and his team was in the line of fire constantly.

The corpse was splayed on the floor of the shop, his head bashed in. “I thought…” Chandler started. “I thought it was nitric acid poisoning.”

“It is,” Miles said. “Our vic clearly didn’t lie down and take it. He was probably unconscious when the perp poured the acid down his throat. Where’s our friendly pathologist?”

There was a shuffle and some shouting as Miles worked his sturdy frame through the tiny shop and others tried to get round him and inside where they could take a look. Chandler decided his best bet would be to back out like Miles and get some fresh air until Dr Llewellen arrived.

“Sir,” Miles said when Chandler finally joined him. He handed him a cardboard cup of tea and leaned back on his heels. “Not easy to administer nitric acid to a vic. Our murderer has a point to make. Otherwise he’d shoot them or just bash their heads in, wouldn’t he?”

Good on Miles, talking about the case and letting Chandler’s nerves settle. Months now and he wasn’t over what had happened on his turf. What had happened to someone he cared about, or very nearly. It was difficult not to question Morgan’s death as a sign. Yet here he was. He was still pursuing cases, still hiding his torment from everyone else. Still keeping his job. Soon it would all come tumbling down. Looking through the gathered detectives to the body inside, he thought _maybe this time._

“Sir? What do you think?” Miles was asking.

“Sorry, yes, I do think another look at the first body is in order and we absolutely must re-interview everyone connected. We can rule out quite a few once we’ve established these two are related.” Chandler sighed with relief as Miles looked at him, clearly hearing what he expected to. “But we need to be open to the possibility that these two murders aren’t connected and the nitric acid is just… coincidence.”

Miles nodded and they returned to the small shop, which was now feeling rather stuffy, and Miles crouched down by Caroline and the body. Chandler stood stiffly, wincing as his suit rubbed against the bulletproof glass behind him. A SOCO in scrubs was dusting the cash register for fingerprints and going through the contents bit by bit.

“Organic matter turns yellow when it comes in contact with nitric acid,” Caroline said. “Stains on his clothing and some here, on these magazines, are yellow, so this was forcible and messy.”

“He was determined it was to be death by poisoning,” Miles said. Chandler always admired how close Miles could get to a corpse. The grotesque yellow stains and the burned lips and tongue were visible, along with the massive head wounds and a torn eyelid and it nearly sent Chandler running for the nearest bins.

“What I will only be able to determine back at my lab is whether or not he died from his head wounds or from the nitric acid. I suspect the latter, as these look more like gashes, meant to cause unconsciousness at most. Yes, our killer was determined nitric acid should be the cause and he did his best to see it through.” Caroline rose and began reciting instructions to the crime scene photographers who had been waiting outside.

“That’s our cue, then,” Miles said. “Kent’s looking into the onlookers, Mansell is bringing round those related to the shop and we might as well get on to the family.”

Chandler followed him out the door silently. Miles would know he’d want to talk to the family personally and he was afraid if he opened his mouth, what would come forth would not be words.

~*~

The next morning, Chandler was in early. He finished an entire pot of tiger balm before the rest of them showed up. No one looked particularly fresh. He set them all to tasks, and then retreated to his office to think. Buchan was scheduled to come by. He’d asked very politely for the man to schedule himself and stick to the schedule and it looked like this morning, he was complying.

Chandler drove himself to his feet and wandered down to Buchan’s lair. He was simply unable to set a good example this morning. “Morning, Ed, thought I’d pop down and get a start on what you’ve got for me. Ahead of our scheduled time, that is.”

“Right,” Buchan said. “I would have been ready then, but now I’m in the middle of...” he looked up and seemed to see the desperation on Chandler’s face. “So let’s dive right in, shall we?”

“On the evening of August 28, 1962, classical music played loudly at the Ranchero Palms Apartment complex in California. Screams were heard. Police arrived at the apartment of Geza de Kaplany. He had tortured his wife, dowsed her with sulfuric and nitric acids, and mutilated her body with a knife. She died thirty-six days later.”

“That sounds nothing like what we’ve got here,” Chandler said.

“My point is that nitric acid is rarely used as a murder weapon. In fact, it is more likely to be used to commit suicide. It’s not a poison one can slip into someone else’s drink,” Buchan’s eyebrows were doing gymnastics above his eyes. “As I tried to tell you yesterday, this is a signature. It’s important.”

“Right.” Chandler rubbed his temples earnestly, his fingers coming away slick with balm.

“In fact, in the living heart of Jack the Ripper territory in Whitechapel is 16 Batty Street,” Buchan said, his eyes going wide with humorous horror, an expression that used to serve him well as a tour guide. Chandler leaned back in his chair. Buchan continued. “In 1887, a failing umbrella stick salesman named Israel Lipski forced nitric acid down the throat of fellow boarder Miriam Angel, six months pregnant, as she lay in bed on the second floor. Despite some evidence her husband or some thieves might have done the deed and been interrupted by Lipski, no one ever considered any other suspect. Lipski had ingested nitric acid himself, but not enough to kill him, and he was found lying under Miriam’s bed.

“The trial was a sensation and, even with intervention from rabbis and MPs, Lipski was hanged within a month. It is said there were anti-Semitic forces at work.” Buchan’s voice had lowered to a whisper.

Chandler had to admit he was caught up in the story. “Strange, I’ve never heard of this.”

“It was dismissed as unconnected to the Ripper and was overwhelmed in the ongoing frenzy of Ripper murders.”

“Ah,” Chandler tried to re-focus. “A crime of passion – whoever did it. Gruesome and overwhelming. No easy death, to be sure. Now we have another perpetrator with the same method of killing. We’ve had one per night so far, can we expect a third tonight?”

“Perhaps sooner. Something has sent our murderer into a frenzy. He’s burning hot and fast. As you say, it’s passion!”

“Very descriptive,” Chandler said. He wanted to ask an important question, to rev up the debate that was so valuable to him. He could not. He felt unduly tired and his eyelids struggled to defeat gravity.

“It’s also a way to inflict pain,” Buchan said, still enthused. “Our young Polish lass managed to swallow quite a bit, clearly under duress, and that is not easy. Two to three spoonfuls of nitric acid are enough to kill a person, and it seems she had much more than that. We know it’s not suicide because of the ligatures, but she was made to swallow _that much_ , and the report doesn’t indicate she spat it back. There would be stains everywhere.” Buchan’s short fingers splayed in the air. Chandler had an image of the young girl on her knees, the killer threatening to harm a family member if she didn’t drink. He shuddered.

“We’ve covered sales of nitric acid and door-to-door canvassing is also asking about stains. I expect the foot soldiers will come back with a lot of evidence that turns out to be cat urine or coffee,” Chandler said. Buchan chuckled at this but Chandler’s stomach turned the instant the words were out of his mouth. He hadn’t eaten. No time for that now.

“Oi,” Miles appeared in the doorway. “Time for the morgue. Caroline’s done with the latest. Got your smelling salts, sir?”

“But there’s more!” Buchan protested.

“There’s always more,” Chandler said gently. “Summarise a bit for me will you? Particularly if you’re right and we’re looking at a spree killer.”

Buchan nodded solemnly, and with an understanding look at Miles, he returned to his piles. Chandler delivered himself to Miles, who said, as they walked to the morgue, that for once he agreed with Buchan. “He’s sleeping now. Tonight he’ll be at it again. When he runs out of steam we’ll be looking for him to try death by copper.”

“What you’re smelling is the nitric acid,” Caroline said, almost the minute they were inside the morgue. “Abdominal distension is due to the nitric acid, which causes the yellow staining of the teeth and skin as well.”

The once-beautiful Polish girl continued to draw Chandler’s attention. Yesterday they had thrown out suicide and all-but ruled out a new boyfriend. Kasia Walczak hadn’t been in the country long enough, it seemed. She had a job at a nearby art supply store and her flat was small and clean. Communicating with her family in Poland had been difficult, but Polish speakers were on site now and hopefully there would be more to go on.

“Adjust your timelines, lads,” Caroline told them. “Our female victim would have suffered horribly for at least 12 hours before expiring. Time of death is 10 pm but the nitric acid could have been administered as early as 6 am. Corrosion of the tissue is slow and she had time to rub her wrists raw as she slowly and painfully suffocated.”

Chandler flinched and looked away. “What can you tell us about the second victim?”

“Much more quickly for him. He suffered from several blows to the head, to make him complacent, I’d think. Then nitric acid was poured in and it would have been within an hour or less for death to occur.”

“That’s odd,” Miles said. “Does the perp wait there while his vic dies, or does he leave them, and if so, could they live through it and identify him? An apartment is one thing, although 12 hours sounds like a bloody long time to watch someone die, but in a shop, anyone could have walked in in that hour.”

“We know he’s sloppy, makes a mess,” Chandler said. “Maybe this was down to luck. He had the urge to strike, for whatever reason, and he got away with it.”

“Then why not bash the man’s head in and be done with it? Why do the whole song and dance with nitric acid and hang about on the off-chance no one will notice you standin’ above a corpse with a bottle in your hand?”

“Christ, I don’t know,” Chandler said and rubbed his temples again. “I… I’m going back to Buchan, no, let’s go to the incident room and hash it out with the team.”

“Okay boss, let’s go,” Miles said. Caroline said nothing. “Email us the reports will you, love?” He asked Caroline and at the same time Chandler felt the shadow of Miles’ hand at his back as they left the morgue together.

~*~

Chandler couldn’t come up for air again for hours, but when he did, Miles cornered him and started in about feeding the fish and taking it easy. Chandler gritted his teeth and tried not to pull at his collar. He needed a fresh shirt and _not_ changing clothes was simply punishment he did not deserve. Or maybe he did.

“Let’s get some air. Couple of warehouses near Brick Lane need looking into for their nitric acid supply. They close soon, so let’s go.” Chandler obediently followed Miles out of the incident room, avoiding Riley and Kent’s eyes. They didn’t like it when he started being led around by his sergeant.

They hadn’t quite reached the front door when their mobiles beeped. Chandler looked at his shoes as the information was relayed to him. Another dead body bearing the marks of their killer. He and Miles ran for the car and his mind kicked into gear as he processed the details. Miles was getting something from Kent and they looked at each other as Miles slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the siren. Traffic at rush hour was brutal, and Miles swore like a drunken football fan, occasionally making Chandler grin into his hand. It was a relief to do so since his shirt was starting to cause him more trouble than it ought, trickles of sweat making it stick to his ribs. Miles leaned on the horn and shouted even louder and Chandler tried to focus on the scene ahead of them.

Once there, they were told to put on masks before entering. The floor of a tiny flat had been rendered toxic. It was clearly overkill, and the body had not been there for long. Chandler groaned. He had been told it was a woman and that she was black, but now he realized she was wearing a hijab.

“No coincidence then,” Miles said. “He’s targeting young immigrants. Wonder how long she’s been in London.”

“He’s escalating, and fast,” Chandler said. “We need to get moving.” He raised his voice and ensured that police personnel were canvassing the neighborhood in a quick and organised manner. Caroline arrived looking exhausted and she, Miles and Chandler exchanged sympathetic glances. Kent, Riley and Mansell were right behind her and they began to go over the scene doggedly, stopping only to clear their lungs and wipe their eyes when they needed to.

Chandler called Buchan. “Meet in two hours?”

“Pub?” Buchan said, as if his life depended on it.

“All right, bring your files.”

“You can count on it.”

~*~

Chandler waited idly for Ed in the pub. He looked forward to seeing his friend and whatever he could bring to the investigation. His eyes watered and his shirt had had become a torture device ( _hair shirt_ , he thought).

According to her employee identification, the woman’s name was Fiyaz Qureshi. Chandler thought she was Pakistani. Her face had been burned badly by the acid. The flat looked as if others lived there too, but there was no sign of them, and they hadn’t lived there long. The refrigerator was nearly empty, the three small beds looked hastily slept in, and there were piles of clothes lying around.

Chandler was told by his superiors get some rest; he’d be expected at a presser in the morning and would then need to refocus the search given all the divergent information.

Buchan arrived in a flurry of files and loose ends. “Joe, good to see you. You look tired. Beer? Wine? Sparkling water?” Chandler thought he’d acquiesce for once and asked for a lager, making sure to remind Ed to get a _half._

Once they’d settled in, Buchan got rolling. “Forcible administration has been seen when the victim is drunk. This has been reported, so our killer is nearly always going to have to incapacitate his victim in some way. Drug them, tie them, beat them down. There are many cases where it was used to maim, as that fellow did in California to his unfaithful wife.”

“It’s unusual. So we’re looking for meaning. He’s targeting recently arrived immigrants, he has a problem with them.”

“We’re in the middle of a sea of immigrants from all over the world. He’s changing nationalities, so he’s what, a collector?” Buchan fanned through his files. “Collectors are fascinating.”

“Hold on. I’m thinking that’s not the case. Collectors are – correct me if I’m wrong – careful and thoughtful killers, taking some sort of trophy away with them. This person is headed for a very violent end, either by his own hand, by the hand of one of his victims or from us.”

“Sorry, yes. I would agree with you there. For now anyway. We need to look at the faces. First thing, put their photos up on the board and see what they tell you.”

“Good idea. But the history of anti-immigration murder or use of nitric acid?”

“Anti-immigration sentiment in the East End? It’s generally not a singular journey. It comes out in marches, riots or random violence. Not in murder sprees. This person is several hundred years too late to be upset about it.”

Chandler sighed. He sipped his beer and caught the eye of a young woman across the bar. She was openly staring at him and discussing him with her friend. Chandler blushed. He looked down at the table and wondered _what if?_

“As you know, on the 4th of May in 1978, Altab Ali, was attacked and killed by three teenagers as he walked home from his job as a clothing worker,” Buchan said. “It was racially motivated. Right by St. Mary’s Churchyard!”

Chandler looked back at Buchan. “Three teens. We’ve been assuming one person, but what if it is in fact, two or more?”

“There were marches and fights between skinheads and Bangladeshi youths in the days that followed,” Buchan mused. He really enjoyed his job, Chandler had to give him that.

“We haven’t had a Bangladeshi killed yet,” Chandler said. “Largest minority population, what is he waiting for?”

“The coup de grace, perhaps.”

“Nitric acid is also used to make explosives.”

“Are you thinking a bombing?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking, I’m following a trail of millions of tiny clues, and three deaths in 48 hours is just…” He trailed off. Buchan looked at him and pressed his lips together.

“Joe. Finish your beer and go home. Rest. Grasping at straws won’t help you right now.”

“You’re a good man, Ed,” Chandler said, and meant it.

~*~

Rest was elusive. Chandler tossed and turned and got up too many times to exchange his pyjamas for a fresh set. He checked the clock incessantly. It was moving too fast, but not fast enough and soon it would be morning and he’d be exhausted.

He wanted to phone Miles but resisted the urge. Poor man needed his sleep.

~*~

The board swam in front of Chandler’s eyes as Kent handed him another coffee. Manners dictated that he mumble a “thank you,” and he managed that, but not much more. Overnight the details had grown, as family members and friends were contacted then interviewed. The logistics were a nightmare and he was set to meet representatives from each of the countries involved in just a few hours. They would be as demanding as his superiors, asking him what progress was made and whether or not he would advise caution to any particular immigrant group.

Under Kasia’s name he noticed new details, so he paused to file them away in his head. She wanted to be a clothing designer and was a gifted sketch artist. Pretty, talented, hard working, she had come to London legally and her family said she was very driven.

“Job in a clothing shop,” Mansell said, coming up behind him. He taped a sketch of some strange clothing design to the board. Chandler blinked. Mansell had really come along. He had been the last holdout to embrace the board. “Things you wouldn’t want your daughter wearin’ but that look good on a fit bird.”

“Right,” Chandler said by way of reply. He’d never understand the macho banter about women, but he didn’t think it altogether appropriate at any rate. _Compromise,_ had been another one of his early mantras.

“Rajiv Mehta worked in a shop with a large stock of comic books. He wanted to be an illustrator.” Riley joined them at the board and Chandler could hear Kent and Miles scraping back their chairs.

“Here,” Riley said, “Some of his comic sketches. Talented bloke, I’ll grant you.” She taped up two pieces, both of them featuring highly stylized superheroes or monsters of some sort, their body parts all out of proportion. Chandler tilted his head, and then shook it. A nice trip to the National when this was over and he’d be fine. Maybe Miles would come with him and he could explain -- _no_ Miles would laugh in his face.

“That leaves our third vic,” Miles said. “Any sign of creative talent there?”

“Yes,” Mansell said excitedly. “Yes. This is the thread we’re looking for.”

“Ms Qureshi,” Riley said, slapping something against the board under her name and photograph. “Escaped an arranged marriage to come to London to pursue sculpting. Here as a tourist for now, but already working as a nanny for a Pakistani couple.”

“Miles, let’s get a list of art supply shops and we’ll pay them a visit,” Chandler said. His exhaustion was momentarily forgotten. The next half hour was a flurry of phone calls and printouts. Chandler sent Kent to the Whitechapel Art Gallery while Mansell and Riley were asked to sift through more data, widening their search.

Once in the car, Miles started in. “Sir, you’re not looking well. I know it’s the case, but if you’re going to burn yourself out so soon after what happened with Morgan, well, you ought to tell me so I can prepare myself for a new guvnor.”

“Shut up, Miles.” Chandler did not want to talk about that right now.

“Fair enough, boss, but if you find yourself emptying all our bins three times a day, soaping your hands for more than basic hygiene or showering in your clothes, you’ll let me know, right?”

“What?”

“Just let me know if you feel you’re going off the rails.”

“Miles,” Chandler exhaled in exasperation. “I’m fine. I’m allowed to show a little stress when trying to catch a spree killer. You can’t call my sanity into question every time we catch a case.”

“Sorry, Joe, I’m trying to be supportive and not doing a very good job of it,” Miles rubbed at his eyes. “No wonder Judy’s at her mum’s for an extended stay. Difficult to smooth out my rough edges at this stage of my life.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t know about Judy.”

“It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. Just need time to adjust to the baby and all.”

“Your rough edges are fine. I appreciate you looking out for me.” Chandler felt a tug in his chest, which was silly really. Two grown men, colleagues, should never have to explain themselves. Yet he was glad Miles had done so just now. The concept of friendship wasn’t foreign, it was just… different.

“Ready?” Miles said, pulling up to the first address on their list. “Enough of the heart to heart.”

~*~

Chandler wasn’t an aficionado of modern art. He could clearly see that the artists’ work on display in the few shops and galleries they’d been to was mostly good quality, but he found it puzzling and meaningless. He liked the echoing space of the Tate Modern but preferred a quiet spot near the JMW Turners at the original Tate, his feet firmly planted on clean carpeting.

He paused in front of a wall of graffiti along Brick Lane and tried to follow the silver lines to their inevitable conclusions, but the riot of reds and yellows tripped him up, The word, when he finally made it out, didn’t make sense. He rubbed his temples and pictured a white coat of paint smoothed over the bricks in front of him.

“Oi!” Miles shouted from down the street. “What the bloody hell are you waiting for? Some of us plan to have a curry in front of the telly tonight, no matter how late.”

“Coming,” Chandler muttered. He caught up with Miles. “I’m sure this is a waste of our time.”

“No stone unturned,” Miles said, plucking at Chandler’s coat sleeve to get him moving in the right direction. “The bloke at that art supply shop said this gallery’s got good connections with the individual artists. We can add Twitter to our list of places to mine for information. _Christ!_ ”

Chandler made a face. He usually let Kent and Riley do the social media thing. Kent had sat down with him just the other day to attempt an explanation of Facebook and the whole idea of it was appalling. He’d give the list of artists and shop owners to Kent to see what he could do with it.

“Boss,” Miles’ voice was soft. Chandler shook his head slightly and tried to focus on the present moment.

“Sorry, just ruminating. On the case.”

They entered the art gallery. It was small and narrow, but with excellent lighting. The young woman at the back counter waited until they were directly in front of her before taking out her earphones and cocking her head at them.

They got the pleasantries out of the way and once they had convinced her that it was a serious matter and that they weren’t going to leave until they’d received an answer for every question, _Gillian_ became more cooperative.

“Read the papers, love?” Miles asked.

“Not really,” she replied. “Bunch of bollocks, innit?”

“Sure, unless there’s a serial killer on the loose in your neighborhood.” Miles laid out the photos of the victims on the desk in front of her. “Know any of our victims?”

Gillian pretended to ponder the photos, but it was clear from the outset she was shocked at the sight of familiar faces. “Kasia, right?” she asked after several moments. “Rajiv and Fiyaz, yeah? They’re dead?”

“I’m sorry to inform you of their deaths this way, Gillian,” Chandler said, leaning forward and drawing in his excitement at the same time. He affixed an expression of condolence on his face. “They’ve been murdered and we wish to stop the perpetrator before he takes any more lives.”

“He?” she asked.

“The force needed to subdue his victims first… well, you can imagine it wasn’t easy. He kills them with nitric acid. Can you think of any reason these three people would be targeted and why nitric acid would be important as a signature for their killings?”

Gillian went white and then a hot flush crept up her neck. Her hair, dyed a bright orange-red contrasted strangely with this effect on her skin and Chandler watched silently as she struggled to piece together this information.

“I discovered them,” she said. “Kasia, Rajiv and Fi. And others. They’re part of what we’re doing here – giving new artists a space to show their work. That’s Kasia’s there. Rajiv did several drawings and they all sold. Fi too, her sculptures; two of them are there, in the middle.”

“Then this gallery ties them all together,” Miles said. “Give us a list of all your artists.” Gillian fumbled at the computer to retrieve her files, and Chandler backed up a bit to look at the art. A metal mannequin stood in the centre, dressed in a tailored suit made of old photographs. The signage on the floor read “Kasia Walczak, couturier.” Fiyaz was listed as sculptor near two small stone sculptures of nearly nude, voluptuous women’s bodies. It wasn’t difficult to see why she had come to London.

Miles was on the phone, reading the list of names to someone on the other end. “Get round to all of them and make sure each one is accounted for,” he said.

“There’s one that…” Gillian said suddenly. “I rarely see him, but he lives and works upstairs, in the studios. You probably want to talk to him.”

“Great, we’ll talk to him now,” Chandler said.

“Through the back door there, take the stairs to the right all the way up. There’s two doors, he’s the first one.”

“Name?” Miles asked.

“Alan. Alan Curtis.”

“Perhaps you’d better come with us, Gillian.”

She took a deep breath and stood up from her chair. “This way.”

They climbed the stairs together, Miles stopping to catch his breath as Chandler and Gillian kept on. The stairwell was dim and dirty and Chandler felt himself losing focus. He looked down and vertigo rose up behind his eyes. The staircase spiraled down to the ground in a sickening visual rush.

“That one,” Gillian said, pointing at the grimy door.

Miles was knocking before Chandler could think further about the terrors of the dim hallway, the slight stench of chemicals and rotting food. The door opened and the smells intensified. Chandler had stepped so far back he was now shoulder-to-shoulder with Gillian, who was fidgeting as if she might suddenly bolt down the stairs.

“Mr Curtis? Police. We need to ask you a few questions.” _Good old Miles_ , Chandler thought wildly. Miles was standing front and centre, like a wall. His foot was in the door before Curtis could slam it shut. “Open this door, Mr Curtis!”

Chandler came back to life. He sprang forward and slammed the door open. Curtis had scurried down his hallway into the semi-dark. He and Miles scoured the walls for a light switch. Chandler’s eyes began to adjust and he made his way down the hall, calling out for Curtis to show himself. There were three doors at the end of the hall. One was closed and two were ajar, the third had the most light, seemingly coming from a skylight in the roof.

Chandler pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. “I’m calling for backup.” He made short work of the call and then Miles motioned Chandler back behind him. He pointed to the doors: _1, 2, 3_. Chandler nodded and the closed door splintered as Miles’ shoe kicked it in.

A bathroom.

Chandler could hear birds making cooing noises. Probably nested in the skylight. Their droppings would be all over the floor. Miles pushed open the second door to reveal a tiny room with a cot and clothing strewn over every bit of space, the windows covered with black tape. Even Miles shuddered at the smell.

Miles nodded his head toward the third room and together they shouldered in. At times like these Chandler prayed their perpetrator wasn’t armed, and wished he was a detective in an American television show, that is to say, armed to the teeth and guaranteed to win the fight.

“Alan Curtis, put your hands up and come into the light,” Miles shouted, his face covered in a fine sheen of sweat. They could hear Curtis rustling about in the back of the room, a room cluttered with bottles and easels and pieces of metal. If it was an artist’s studio, it was that of a deranged one.

“Mr Curtis, we just want to ask you a few questions. I’m DS Miles and this is DI Chandler.”

“I’m sure we can straighten everything out,” Chandler called. “Just talk to us, show yourself.” The length of the studio wall was covered with shelves; various bottles and containers stood crowded like sentries jostling for space. The birds rustled above their heads and suddenly they could hear the sound of low laughter.

“Straighten everything?” A man’s voice called out. “Show myself?” He laughed again. “Well. You did ask.”

Alan Curtis stepped out from behind a pile of cardboard boxes and moved toward them. Dust swirled in front of Chandler’s eyes and he strained to glimpse the man. As soon as Chandler realised what he was seeing, he knew. He _knew_ this was their killer. One side of his face was terribly scarred, the right eye peering out from a melted socket of skin. The scarring continued down his neck.

“Your scar,” Chandler said as gently as he possibly could. “Acid burn? Who did that to you?”

Alan laughed again. “ _I_ did, you arsehole. I’ve sacrificed for my art. What have _they_ done for theirs?”

“Did you kill the others because they didn’t sacrifice enough? Because you were jealous of their success?” Chandler forgot about the dust and the droppings – he was fully engaged. What made a man kill another human being? He stepped toward Alan, putting his hands out to placate him.

“What kind of art do you do, Alan? What’s the nitric acid for?”

“Since Rembrandt, etchers have used nitric acid," his voice was defiant but shrill. "It’s a lost art. I was going to be the next Rembrandt, do you understand? I had almost mastered all of his techniques. An early mistake - just one - and this is my face. Almost a work of art in itself, wouldn’t you say?” He was educated, might have even been handsome. One mistake, as he said.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Chandler said. “It must be a very difficult process.” Where was their backup? He silently thanked Miles for keeping his mouth shut and letting Chandler attempt to soothe Alan, but soon they would need strength in numbers to bring him in. Alan was standing too close to the bottles on the shelf for comfort. One glimpse revealed some of the names on the bottles: nitric acid, turpentine, zinc, ferric chloride. He could throw just one…

“Difficult,” Alan sneered. “You have no idea.” He held up a hand that was scarred and immobile, like a claw. “How can I work with _this?_ I can’t do anything precise. But I can do things that are brutal. Art that has an impact. A big impact.”

“Chandler,” Miles said, his tone a warning. Alan was now in fact reaching for something on the shelf and Chandler put his hands up.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Alan,” he said. Alan held up a lighter. There were stacks of paper and metal plates on the bottom shelf and littering the floor. “No,” Chandler said, but he heard the terrible click and crackle as Alan dropped the lighter.

“Alan, come on! This way!” But Alan didn’t move. He was watching the fire grow with fascination, the paper curling like fingers and rising to meet him. There was a sound of glass breaking.

Miles was at the door already and he was reaching, fumbling for Chandler’s hand. He grabbed it and yanked. Chandler felt pulled out of his body and then forcibly pushed toward Miles as something exploded. His feet stayed under him as they scuttled down the hallway toward the door, but there was another explosion and he felt pain as the air was pushed from his chest and the floor rushed up to meet him.

~*~

Chandler opened his eyes. Ash and white feathers floated down toward his face. Bits of blackened paper circled above him and he felt moisture on his forehead. Someone was holding on to him, gripping him by the shoulders, shouting. Miles. Miles’ hands. Grounding him. He blinked.

“Get up, sir,” Miles said. “We have to get out of here.” Chandler looked up. He was on his back in the stairwell, and smoke was billowing out of what used to be Alan’s flat. He could feel it in his lungs. “Sir!” Miles’ voice was louder now, more urgent. Chandler felt Miles’ hands lift from his shoulders, but then they circled his wrists and he could see that Miles, with his bad knees, was going to attempt to throw Chandler over his shoulder and carry him down four flights of stairs.

“I’m fine, Miles, fine… just help me up.”

“Put your arm around me, that’s it. Now let’s _move_.”

They stumbled down the stairs, tripping and sliding as they went. When they reached the first floor they heard the sound of another terrifying explosion. Gillian came flying towards them and got under Chandler’s other arm. With her help they made it down the last flight of stairs and then out to the street. Sirens blared and men in uniform ran riot up and down the street, people scurrying outward from the burning building. Gillian disappeared and Chandler was thumped down in the back of an ambulance. Miles’ arm slid out from underneath him and he scrambled wildly for it, not trusting his watering eyes to tell him where Miles was.

“Let the medic look at you, Boss,” Miles said. But he was fine, there was no need. He tried to push her away, but she persisted with various tests and used her little torch to look in his mouth and nose, all the while asking him questions.

Miles was lying inside the ambulance with a cannula around his head and Chandler ended up next to him, feeling quite foolish, but better able to breathe. He thought about what just happened. Alan Curtis was most definitely dead, and he was the killer they’d been chasing all over Whitechapel. Chandler was curious to know what Alan’s art was like before the accident. Probably nothing special, and at any rate, not worth killing three people for – people who weren’t even to blame for his disfigurement. Chandler felt a momentary pinch of discomfort. It was regret; that someone who had taken lives also took his own and couldn't be brought to justice for his crimes. He knew it would pass, only to be followed by the melancholy that inevitably set in after a case was closed.

The ghosts, as Ed once called them. He’d told Ed that you learn to live with them. He’d said it to reassure himself as much as Ed. He wasn’t sure he’d really learned how, just yet.

~*~

Mansell was able to reel off a number of jokes about Chandler and Miles lying down on the job. He made Miles laugh and Chandler was grateful to him. Kent had several furrows on his young forehead and Riley told them both that she was going to hug them, and that they would stand still and not whinge.

He and Miles were allowed to go home after having done a minimum of the paperwork required, and having assured their superiors that the case was, for all intents and purposes, closed. It was 7 p.m. when Kent offered to drive them home.

Chandler called Miles into his office. He stood stock still in the middle of his office because he didn’t want to get soot on his chair or desk. He wouldn't think about what happened to the suit he was wearing, much less the shoes, or what was on his skin. Miles had smudges on his face that gave him a slightly clownish look, and the man was never more dear to Chandler. So he didn’t hesitate to ask for what he wanted.

“Miles, I would really like… that is. I would appreciate it if you… Miles.”

“Whatever you need, Boss, just don’t ask me to work late tonight.”

“No, not that. Not really, unless you thought of it as work.” Miles looked puzzled. Chandler sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Could you pack a bag and stay at my flat tonight?”

Miles looked fairly gobsmacked. “Are you okay, Sir? Do you need to go to hospital?”

“N-no. I can’t explain it. I could just use the company. I have some nice whiskey. Um. And a pull-out sofa. Since Judy and the kids are away, I thought…”

“You had me at whiskey, Boss. Let’s swing by mine. It’ll take five minutes for me to grab my gear. You ready?” Miles wasn’t smiling exactly, but he had a pleased look on his face, and Chandler sighed openly with relief. Miles understood, of course he did.

“Never been more ready.”

~*~

Kent dropped them off at Chandler’s flat with the worst attempt at false cheer Chandler had ever seen. He knew Kent would be surly that he and Miles were going home together, but it wasn’t meant to exclude anyone, and it wasn’t anything salacious.

“Night, Kent,” Chandler said, patting the top of the car and not bothering to offer any explanation. “See you tomorrow.” It was a little cruel, but Chandler allowed himself the momentary lapse of professionalism.

After a lengthy shower, Chandler wrapped himself in his robe and let Miles use the bathroom. He poured two whiskeys. The most comfortable room was the bedroom so he stayed there. Miles joined him, looking fairly mortified in pyjama pants and an old t-shirt. Chandler handed him the whiskey and they touched their glasses together and drank.

“I feel much better,” Miles said. “These are the most comfortable chairs I’ve ever sat in, and that bed looks like an ocean liner. Not a bad bachelor life you’re living after all.”

“Last time you were here, I didn’t give you a proper tour,” Chandler said, referring to the time during the Kray case when Miles had had to literally retrieve him from the shower, where he was crouched, fully clothed and in the middle of a full-blown panic attack.

“Last time… right. Well.”

“This is it, though. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, study. I don’t spend a lot of time here as you know.”

“Yes, you prefer to while away your spare time in your office.

“I’m rather addicted to work, yes.” Chandler shifted in his chair. “And other things. Routines. I wanted to say… I wanted you to know, that is, that I’m working on it.”

Miles looked up in surprise. “Sir, you don’t need to say anything.”

“I want to.” Chandler felt suddenly helpless, almost at the mercy of his sergeant. But Miles returned his panicked gaze with sympathy, and placed his wide hand on Chandler’s forearm.

“Honestly, sir, it’s all right.”

Chandler stared at Miles’ hand on his arm and felt the now-familiar rush that even the most casual of touches gave him. Most of them had come from Miles. That was something he’d been circling, but now had to consider seriously. “Would it even be all right if I told you that when you touch me, even like this, it – it _helps?_ It helps me. I don’t know why, but today it was fairly clear. You grabbed me and pulled me out of a burning building, but your touch _focused_ me. I don’t know what to make of that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have expected that these little piggies would be able to do much magic, but that’s kind of you.” Miles wiggled his fingers but left his hand where it was. He even drew in his thumb to rub the underside of Chandler’s wrist. “And pardon me if this is way beyond the remit of a sergeant, but I don’t get the picture you get touched a lot. So it makes sense you’d be touch starved. Hope you know I don’t mean nothing by it, it’s just my way. I can stop if you’d prefer.”

“No!” Chandler almost shouted. “No. It’s good. And it makes other touches presumably easier.”

“When you don’t entirely flinch, we’ll know you’re ready for dating,” Miles said, cheeky smile firmly in place.

“You’re not my therapist,” Chandler protests.

“I’m not remotely qualified. I just want to help, Sir, if I can.”

“It’s… I know you think it’s an illness, that I’m… mentally…”

“I don’t think anything but that you need other people in your life, people to help you. In whatever way. The rest is up to you. You have to separate the illness from the man. Unless you want them to be the same, they really don’t have to be.”

 _Separate the illness from the man._ Chandler quite liked that. He could go somewhere and leave his _illness_ at the door. He could work on curing it without letting go of who he was. He could, if he wanted to, push it aside when he needed to.

“The illness wants to pick up lint from the floor, but the man wants to go to bed,” Chandler said before he could stop himself. “Would you be interested in sharing the bed?” He stood up, swaying, then flopped down on the bed unselfconsciously.

“You’ve had too much whiskey, obviously. But my back could use the rest on a nice mattress like that. Budge up. I’ll keep to my side. And no funny business.”

Chandler lay smiling up at the ceiling. He could feel Miles’ warmth and the vibrations of his laughter. “Nothing funny about _us_ in bed together. What will we tell Kent?”

“ _You_ have an evil streak I never saw coming.” Miles continued to chortle, then downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass carefully on a coaster on the nightstand. He climbed onto the bed. “Tell him I snore.”

“Cruel,” Chandler agreed. He closed his eyes and his voice dropped to a murmur. He hardly knew what he was saying anymore. “I’ll tell him your touch kept me calm and warm all night.”

“You’re such a romantic.” Miles moved over, as if none of this was in any way bizarre. Skin touched skin from their shoulders to their fingers. Chandler breathed out, feeling whatever was left of his tension draining away. His eyes felt heavy and soon he drifted away, the sounds of Miles’ snores oddly soothing.


End file.
